


give a [redacted] a bad name and hang him

by Volts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Developing Relationship, F/F, Families of Choice, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Just Vibes, M/M, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, POV Multiple, Past-Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Mistle (The Witcher), Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Well not much, Were-Creatures, Werecats, Wererats, Werewolves, and werecreatures, no beta we die like stregobor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Proverb: 'give a dog a bad name and hang him'  - if a person's reputation has been besmirched, then they will suffer difficulty and hardship. (Wikipedia)*‘Referee wanted, – it doesn’t say what for, Geralt notes – 'must be open minded, strong, not squeamish or allergic to fur. 150 Crowns or 50 Ducats. Witcher preferred. Apply at The Passiflora.’Geralt, working his way through Redania, takes a contract as a referee for a custody battle between a group of cursed Aretuza mages and quartet of singing werecats. His child surprise sulks in the middle of it all...After Cintra Ciri had run, joining a crew who called themselves The Rats. She owed them, all of them. She’d been so alone and now she wasn’t. So when they bring up the initiation ceremony, she doesn’t refuse.“It won’t hurt,” Kayleigh lies.-there’s a pain on her neck.She stops shaking.*Featuring werewolf!Triss, werewolf!Yennefer, wererat!Ciri, and werecat!Jaskier.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Essi Daven & Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #08





	give a [redacted] a bad name and hang him

**Author's Note:**

> \- Written for the Quick fic Challenge
> 
> \- Canon divergence from both Netflix show and Books - up to Time of Contempt - with game references. Spoilers for all.
> 
> \- TRIGGER WARNING : the Implied/Referenced Underage Sex and Implied/Referenced Child Abuse tags refer to Ciri's relationship with Mistle. It's not explicit. I don't know how old Mistle was but Ciri's like 14. I personally find it skeevy, as in the book Mistle saves Ciri from assault before taking advantage of her in her vulnerable state. Ciri canonically has mixed feelings about this so YMMV but she does dwell on this uncomfortably, but breifly, here. Stay safe people.

Silence reigned in the meeting room of Aretuza. The setting sun cast a pink light over the room's occupants as night fell. The fight had blown over, of that Triss was glad. The Ban Ard delegation had left, leaving a coldness in their wake. Some of the mages had gone back to their posts, Sheala hadn’t even wanted to come but had all the same, the importance of the matter outweighing the need for solitude. Fringilla sat, worrying, in the corner. Kiera was drinking with Margarit, they’d emptied the bottle already. Even Yennefer was here, lured away from terminal boredom in Aedrin. Philippa was frowning over the map of the continent set into the tabletop. Tissaia had gone to her office, a headache she’d said.

That worried Triss. They were sorceresses, they didn’t _have_ headaches as a rule, nor did she think that Tissaia would stand to have something so disarranged.

There had been an incident in Redania, a witcher had killed a band of mercenaries who had threatened the town. Already he was being hailed as the Butcher of Blaviken. This wasn’t what was concerning. What was concerning was the involvement of Stregobor. This woman, Renfri, Princess of Creyden, had threatened an entire town to get to Stregobor. Stregobor of course said she was mad, that it was a symptom of her curse. That she was murderous and filled with a sick rage. That she wasn’t human; a monster.

And Yennefer had laughed at that, to Tissaia’s disapproval and Triss’s admiration, and said, “Well being hounded for all of one’s life is likely to make one a little annoyed? If a man was attacking me, I too would want him dead.”

“Give a dog a bad name and hang him,” Tissaia, surprisingly, agreed. Placidly, with eyes of ice, staring down Stregobor from across the table, she says, “Who’s to say what any of those girls would have become.”

And that was from _Tissaia_. The biggest hardass Triss knew.

And now they sat in the aftermath of Stregobor storming out. He had been embarrassed, scared even. Mostly angry that someone had besmirched _his_ character, especially in front of all his cronies.

The look he’d given them all. He hadn’t said anything new, just repeated Tissaia’s words:

 _‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him.’_ The dark look he’d shot them as he left…

Triss shivered.

And realised she couldn’t stop.

 _Something_ came from Tissaia’s office, the absence of a scream emanated outward. They all looked toward the office with a feeling of horror washing over them. Philippa went very still. Margarit hissed in pain, dropping her silver goblet to the floor.

Triss looked over to the new burn mark on her friend’s hand.

Yennefer coughed, great hacking coughs causing her to double over. Fringilla fell to the floor. Kiera was shaking her head, trying to dislodge something.

The clouds parted. A full moon shined it’s mellow light through the high window.

Triss felt a change overcome her. A pain in her bones growing and spreading. She remembers falling to floor, a communal whine vibrating through the very walls of Aretuza, then:

_Pack._

The howl could be heard in Gors Velen and beyond.

* * *

When Jaskier had been small he thought that everyone, all the humans who his parents traded with in the town, could turn into cats – at _least_ at full moon. What did they do when they had an all over body itch? Or the need to rush around and _dance_ got too much?

Apparently, most of them didn’t feel like that. They were scared of _them_ , apparently. His mother told him never to transform in front of them. He’d scare them in his big form – or else attract a hunting party for his fur- or terrify them into bringing in a witcher or mage in his half form, and they’d abduct him in his smaller form to kill mice or keep locked in four walls for their amusement. No one had hurt a human in years, they’d had no new members of the colony for a while. And, like with walking and talking, transforming and keeping your head is easier when you learn when you’re a cub. When you’re born into it.

Once, Valdo and Jaskier had crept into town at the dead of night and raided the dairy. The next morning the alderman had found two adolescent tomcats – one marmalade, one black and white – rolling around in front of the cowshed absolutely milkdrunk. They’d been picked up by the scruffs of their necks and threatened with being skinned alive and turned into gloves. Luckily he’d gotten distracted and Valdo and Jaskier had hightailed it away from town to where they’d stowed their clothes.

Leaving two barely grown – overgrown kittens some might say – bards in charge of Essi Daven was a bad idea. They’d been born and raised in the same werecat colony at the foot of the Owl Hills – just outside Brokilon where they were barely tolerated by the dryads – and they’d both headed off to Oxenfurt as soon as they could. The life in the colony and the surrounding towns was just far too boring for two young rapscallions such as themselves. So, when, on their way back to Oxenfurt one Spring, they heard a mewowling above them they had no intention of adopting anyone. But they _‘Couldn’t just leave her here_ , c _ould they Valdo?’_

They’d taken her back to Oxenfurt with them. And then Jaskier had met Priscilla in Ebbing and she’d joined their little group. Their little family of singing snow leopards who lived happily alongside humans, perfectly content with the life they’d chosen to live – outside the expectations of their kin.

* * *

After Cintra Ciri had run.

Visions of her grandmother bleeding out in her tower sanctuary forever engraved upon the inside of her eyelashes.

At some point she loses track of the man in black chasing her. She no longer realises where she is or where she is going only that it’s _away._ No one’s heard of Geralt of Rivia. They tell her to put out a notice if it’s a witcher she wants.

She gets caught by trappers who want to sell her to just about everybody.

Kayleigh rescues her, or rather she rescues them both – cutting free of his bonds until his friends come. He lets her join his crew, Giselher’s crew.From the beginning she’d known there was something not _right_ about Kayleigh. A darkness that made her feel terrified and ashamed. Mistle had saved Ciri from him.

She owed them, all of them. She’d been so alone and now she wasn’t.

So when they bring up the initiation ceremony, she doesn’t refuse. She wants to be part of their crew. They’re doing what she needs, hitting back at Nilfgaard and taking what they deserve. She deserves this, after what Nilfgaard had done to her, to Cintra, what they were doing to villages across the continent.

“It won’t hurt,” Kayleigh lies.

Mistle squeezes her hand in a way she likes but also makes her want to shudder. She _likes_ Mistle but she’s also scared of her. It’s all very confusing, she isn’t sure what she’s supposed to feel, what she wants. And Mistle doesn’t always listen.

It’s early evening, tonight will be a full moon. They lit a bonfire in the centre of a field. Ciri is stood next to it. Mistle pulls out a pot of salve from her bag. It’s grey in colour and smells strongly of earth. She smears it over Ciri’s face, under her eyes and over her forehead. More salve is coated over Ciri’s neck and hands and up her legs to her knees. Giselher replaces Mistle as she steps back. He hands Ciri a green taper.

“When the sun is completely set. Light the flame from the fire.”

Ciri does as she is bid.

The taper flares with a blue flame. Something, a warmth, runs over her body. She loses herself in the sensation, the dwindling orange glow fascinating her suddenly.

A grasp on her hand startles her. She drops the taper, the blue flame licks at the grass.

“Now,” Mistle says, Kayleigh’s smiling – bared teeth – in the background, “Now we dance!”

They dance, the whole crew, around the fire. She barely notices when she starts to shake. When she has fallen to her knees.

Mistle catches her. Pulls her into a hug she desperately wants…

-there’s a pain on her neck.

She stops shaking.

The grass is very tall. She looks down at herself.

4 paws. A long tail. She can smell the grain growing the next field.

_We take what we deserve._

* * *

Triss woke up to find Yennefer gone. This wasn’t an unusual experience, Yennefer liked starting her day’s early – only lying in after a particularly entertaining previous evening. Today they’d be preparing for their trip to Skellige to investigate the rumours of a werebear colony. Maybe they’d have information regarding a cure. they’d worn out Aretuza’s library years ago and Ban Ard’s – with help from Istredd. Oxenfurt’s library had been unhelpfully barren also. Triss rose, her head aching from the effects of the potion they’d both taken last night.

“Triss!” Yennefer’s shout had Triss alert in seconds, up the cellar ladder in half that. 

A girl was hiding behind the water trough outside their property, she was shaking, crying. She stank of chaos, so similar in nature to their own that she must be a were. 

A rat.

The town crier was making his rounds. “Here ye, here ye! Rats attack Novigrad. Here ye. Rats expelled from city by brave militia!”

Triss and Yennefer looked at the shaking creature before them and put together the very simple sum of 1 + 1. 

“Lets get you inside.” And, taking an arm each, they ushered her inside. She ate the broth they fed her, knowing she must be starving after such a transformation – though the twist in Yennefer’s mouth gave rise to a fear, coupled with the knowledge that the Rats had been loose last night - rather than safely kept away – and might sate their monthly bloodlust the more traditional way.She slept fitfully on the pallet in the spare room and refused to tell them a single thing about herself. Triss had healed her cuts and bruises, fashioned her comfortable travelling clothes for her, intending to ask her along to Skellige with them. Yennefer hoped so too, Triss could tell from the way she threatened – when tucked under Triss’s chin at night - to go out and beat up the rest of the girls little gang, the kid was haunted. 

Also she, Falka - though they both suspected she must be the most sought after lost princess of Cintra, Cirilla - had an uncontrolled power within. Once or twice Triss had witnessed her space out and declare prophetic happenings in an unrecognisable voice; she’d come-to groggy, not entirely aware of what she’d been saying. 

Every mage knew of the coming of the winter which would end life as they knew it. The name Geralt of Rivia was also repeated, he was her destiny, apparently – though she just scowled when they brought him up afterward. 

They’d just been working up to broaching the subject of her travelling with them to Skellige - and seeing if she would be amenable to them teaching her magic – and had just taken a day for the three of them to buy supplies in the market, when they’d passed a tavern with a brightly coloured quartet of bards playing outside it …

And all hell broke loose in a cacophony of hissing, spitting, and growling. Thus, ensued a stalemate almost broken up by a very public conflict with the militia and only resolved when someone had the bright – predestined – idea to call for a Witcher. It wouldn’t do to draw unnecessary attention, _would it?_

Besides, any sensible Witcher would choose Triss and Yennefer over those 4 wanderers, she needed proper training not singing lessons.

* * *

It’s a sunny day in rural Novigrad. The roads are a mush of churned up mud. There’s been an execution, Geralt can smell it. Redanians may pretend to be more civilised than Temerian’s – who have bodies strung up all over Velen – but burning is a significantly more painful way to die.

And it’s a waste of good firewood.

Noticeboards overflowing with contracts. Geralt’s quite used to that. What he isn’t used to three identical – in content not words - contracts signed in 3 different hands, asking for a referee.

 **‘Referee wanted,** – it doesn’t say what for, Geralt notes – **must be open minded, strong, not squeamish or allergic to fur. 150 Crowns or 50 Ducats. Witcher preferred. Apply at The Passiflora.’**

The Passiflora, a place where all beings are welcome, even warring ones, if they have enough cash. He takes the contract off the board, ripping it as he leaves the nail in place.

There’s a cat sitting atop the noticeboard, washing his paws. That isn’t unusual in itself, this is _Seven Cats Inn_ in Novigrad, after all. What is unusual is that Geralt is pretty sure this is the eighth cat he’s seen - he’s not one to ignore animals that hiss and spit at him. The cat pauses – leg in mid-air – to give him a cheerful ‘meep’. It unnerves him a bit.

Geralt’ll head to the Passiflora in the morning when it’ll no doubt be less busy. He stables Roach in the Inn’s little lean-to and goes in to get a room. The meal is overpriced - another supply truck has been set upon from what he can gather, driving up prices across the city.

The next morning, he heads towards Gildorf - the posher part of Novigrad and so far removed from the Seven Cats you’d hardly think they were in the same city - and toward the Passiflora. As he gets nearer 2 things hit him, first the smell and then the noise.

A choir of dogs’ howl from nearby back yards. He can hear rats scutter around nervously under his feet.

Therianthropes.Fuck.

He always hates taking Werewolf contracts because that was once a _person_ not a monster. Still often is. And the curses are always fiddly and imprecise, set off by the stupidest of things and lifted by the same margins. He’s met men who’ve been cursed from birth and fated in ‘death’ to roam as a werewolf, women cursed after being lured into rituals, people born into it, and, once, a man bitten. If they’re not hurting anyone and Geralt can’t break the curse, he generally tells them to skip town or to get friendly with someone with a lockable cellar.

_ Explains the cat _ , he thought wryly as he walked through the door into the brothel.

Marquise Serenity greets him with an irritated smile and just waves him through, recognising him from their Gwent tournaments before he even raises the contract.

He takes in the people in front of him, an unlikely group gathered in the private room. A group of women sit to the left of him, a kid ahead of him, and a ragtag mix of people reclining to the right.

“See! I told you he’d come!” One of the reclining musicians waves his hand up towards Geralt. Geralt guesses he was the cat from the Inn.

One of the mages rolls her violet eyes, “Well done, kitty-cat. Just what we need(!) We can sort this out ourselves.”

“What is this exactly?” He asks, addressing her. 

The kid scowls, interrupting, “It’s stupid.”

“And you’ve been doing so well ‘til now?” The mage asks her, raising her eyebrows judgingly.

“There was no point in getting a Witcher. They just let you down,” and the kid gives Geralt a downright murderous look. Geralt’s heart drops out.

“Cirilla?” 

(“Oh good, they know each other!”)

“Where were you?” Cirilla asks, pain rolling off her accompanied by a low growl. Now that’s a surprise.

“I looked for you, where were you?”

“I met my crew!” she said defiantly.

“Those shits that abandoned you at the first sign of trouble?” the mage says, almost gently. Under the scent of lilacs and gooseberries she smells like dog. A werewolf.

“They were there for me! More than can be said for some people!” she glared at Geralt again.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the cat, the werecat.

“Yes yes, you’re all very angry with each other. That’s where you come in Witcher. Some of our group thinks this little mouse needs training of some sort. Now-” he gets up. He’s tall, with blue eyes, and floppy brown hair. He’s dressed very immodestly, even in a brothel. Pale blue britches, matching doublet, and nothing else. 

“Because a _Cat_ is such a good guardian for a Rat?!” a second werewolf-mage, with red curls, interrupts rolling her eyes as well.

The room descends into chaos. A bearded cat with twirled mustachios throws a plate as the first cat ducks, hiding under his lute. A blonde werewolf snarls as the plate crashes over her head.

Geralt catches snatches of repartee amongst the hissing:

The moustachioed man says, bitingly cold, “Oh yes because a pack of pooches lead by an _Owl_ is exactly the place for a rat! What do Owl’s eat, I wonder…?!” 

“I’m fine by myself!” Cirilla scowls, her voice angry and frustrated.

The lutenist cowers back from the fight to stand next to Geralt, brushing down his doublet.

“Some reunion,” he says nonchalantly.

“What is, exactly, the issue?” Geralt asked. The blonde werewolf – _was that Kiera Metz?_ – had the moustachioed werecat in a headlock, trying wrestle him to the floor. The werecat was squirming violently. The violet eyed werewolf was reclining in her seat, her only participation in the fight was to flick away any shrapnel getting too close to Cirilla. Cirilla had noticed this and was throwing bits of broken chair in the mage’s direction. 

“Hey!” The lutenist calls half-heartedly to the brawl. “Well, basically. _I’m_ a werecat. So’s Priscilla- ” he pointed toward a werecat - currently in the shape of a snow leopard - who was tugging on a werewolf’s dress, “ and Essi-” he pointed to a younger cat who was accompanying the fight with twangs on her lute, “- that’s my girl! And there, the scourge of my life, is Valdo,” he gestured to the moustachioed man, who was now rolling on the floor, yowling like, well, a cat.

“And the wolves?”

“Mages of Aretuza. A wizard name Stregobor cursed all her puppies into perpetuity. They’re led by a terrifying werewolf-owl. But she’s not here, despite the reinforcements they brought. She’s off doing political-murdery stuff.”

“And Cirilla?” Cirilla was getting increasingly annoyed.

“Well until recently she was with the wererats. See, us bards are a family. The mages are a coven. And the rats were a gang, complete with bitey initiation ceremonies. They were captured. And now we’re fighting about who should raise the little darling.” This last was sarcastically said, one of Cirilla’s projectiles smashed over their heads – punctuating his point perfectly.

“Is that a good idea?” Geralt asked, dryly.

“Well, _I_ don’t want to raise the little horror! I can’t go through that again, Essi was more than enough! I bet she can’t even play the lute! But _they_ ’re much worse!”

“Why?”,ujuiii7776hgvytrerr09876543435tyy43

“Why what?”

“Why are they worse?”

He blustered for a few moments, arms wide and expressive, then, “Have you missed the part where they’re all terrifying? They’ll tear her to shreds!”

Geralt shrugs.

“How do _you_ know her?” The werecat asks, stretching slightly.

“She’s my child surprise. I claimed her at her parent’s betrothal banquet. I actually met her a few years ago in brokilon forest. Tried to get to her after Cintra but missed.”

“Well, this is excellent. You can have her!” and, before Geralt can stop him, he climbs onto a chair and, sticking two fingers in his mouth, whistles piercingly. 

All the werecats jump about a mile high and the werewolves growled. 

“My fellow… uh…Therianthropes! _Destiny_ has decided for us! This here is Geralt of Rivia! Who claimed this young rodent as a – what are baby rats called? – uh, baby!! So, uh, drinks on him! And he can pay for the damages!”

Valdo lets out a yowling whoop, Priscila transforms back into a human, and Essi dances a jig in a circle. 

The werewolves are less happy. The red head and the violet eyed one exchange sad looks.

Cirilla scowls. How the fuck is he going to train a kid? A wererat at that?

But firsts things first, “I’m not paying for damages, you mangy fleabag!”

“I take offence to that! Jaskier’s the name!”

“I don’t give a fuck,” and he stalks off towards Cirilla.

“Piss off,” she has a sword strapped to her back and a scarf tied in a bow at her neck. She’s grown since he last saw her. No longer the child stuck up a tree. A pit of sorrow sprouts in his stomach.

“Get your things. We’ll go to Kaer Morhen.”

She looks like she’s toeing on the edge of agreeing, “To be a Witcher?” _With you?_

“Yes. Where have you been staying?”

She mumbles, “Triss and Yennefer. But my stuffs in the sewers.”

Geralt nods. It might be rather unsanitary but Novigrad’s sewers are quite spacious. Geralt’s known katakans to live down there, hoards of drowners too – good she’ll be familiar with them then – bigwigs like Dijkstra even have storerooms down there.

“I’ll see if there are any drowner contracts down there, might as well start with lesson 1?” That has her interested. Unshed tears stick to her lower lid.

“Come on kid.”

She looks relieved, in a conflicted way, looking back towards the two mages who were arguing quietly.

He only realises he was never paid when he’s watching Ciri take down a drowner on their way to her things.

* * *

Snow leopards aren’t generally pack animals, they’re solitary. Jaskier can’t think why.

Essi leaps from behind a snow drift onto a pretending-to-be-asleep Priscilla, who rolls her easily and pushes her down. Valdo half-heartedly growls as they get closer to knocking him as he washed his paws. Gods that cat was vain. Jaskier rolls onto his back and lets his family flop onto him.

They don’t _have_ to change for full moon, but it’s always nice to stretch under the moon and feel the power wash over him like a suntan. Like having a sore muscle massaged.

Absently he washes Essi’s head. She kneads into his side. Valdo purrs next to them. Priscilla starts to doze, spread over all three of them.

This is nice.

He can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to be a Therianthrope, even if it is a _werewolf_ or _wererat_. But then, they’d all be born into this. They could control their transformation. They could choose when they transformed and what form from their repertoire they transformed into. Jaskier had his snow leopard form, the half man half cat form that he didn’t favour at all, and his loveable marmalade tomcat. Those mages were cursed, cursed by an utter bastard by all accounts. And that girl, well she was alone, wasn’t she?

The next morning, they find their clothes and change back. 

“I’m going to find that Witcher, see how he’s getting along,” he says over a fish breakfast. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Valdo says, picking fishbones out of his teeth, “I need to get back to Cidaris. I have a recital in 2 months, and I need to prep my band.”

Jaskier shared an eyeroll with Essi, who giggled.

Priscilla nodded too, “I need to meet up with Irina. We’ll be hitting all the coastal towns this season before reaching Tretogor. Then we’ll be moseying down to Vizima. Oh, shit I have so much to write before I get back.” She put her head in her hands, despairing over her procrastination. 

“Well, _I_ am going to go to Toussaint,” Essi announced, “I’m going to get first place in the Spring festival. Winner gets a crate of wine and a horse.”

“Well, I’ll go to Kaedwen then!” And hopefully bump into one seriously sexy witcher, Jaskier exchanged a look with Essi who fist bumped him with an eyebrow wiggle. 

Jaskier mimed being sick. No, just, no. Poppet had never so much as looked at a man. But then again, she’d been practically raised by Jaskier. He sighed. She was a grown woman. He just had to suck it up.

Priscilla patted him on the hand, Valdo twirled his moustache.

Right, Kaedwen.

Now, Jaskier was pretty famous. His poems had people weeping across the continent, lovers quoted them up to balconies on starlit nights. His account of the first Nilfgaardian war considered the most thorough account of the conflict, even if several intelligence agencies were concerned about where he received his information. 

However, there was something _lacking_ in his repertoire. 

His autobiography wasn’t complete. So far, he’d only recounted life, his own and the life of the conflict. But what if he could _make_ history. Like all little werecubs he’d been told that if he ever hurt a human the Witcher would come to chop his head off. 

Geralt hadn’t seemed that terrifying.

He’d taken the – kit? - kid in, hadn’t he? Essi had followed them out of town and reported back that he was treating her well, well he wasn’t dissecting her like those mages would have. Jaskier would have gone himself but at the time he had been in an animated discussion with Marquise Serenity about the damages to her establishment and the magnificent tab they’d run up - both of which the witcher had neglected to pay, despite his promise to Jaskier in the contrary! Essi would have continued to follow him but she’d realised halfway to Velen that she was due in Cidaris in a months’ time to play for a Duke and his formerly-mermaid bride. Jaskier would never forgive her for not telling him sooner that she knew _actual_ merpeople. Either way he’d made a good ballad of the story. (It had outsold Essi’s own, much to her disgust).

The point was, Geralt of Rivia was a decent man who must be _full_ of stories and was in a _dire_ need of a reputation boost. He’d stood there, dressed in very tight leather with two scary swords, and cut through all the political therianthrope bullshit – yes, the wolves were annoying, but why fight when you could nap? – to make sure his child surprise was safe.

Jaskier loved a man with a big heart.

Also, he _really really_ wanted to know what a Witcher keep looked like.

* * *

Yennefer and Triss sat huddled around a campfire in snowy Kaedwen, the expanded tent sheltering them from the cold around them.

“What haven’t we tried yet?” Yennefer asks, frowning over their notebook. It’s been over 30 years since Stregobor cast his curse. 30 years of looking futilely for a cure. 

_ Just another thing the brotherhood took from her _ , Triss thinks sadly, _took from us._

Triss had always admired Yennefer. Back when she was a student Yennefer had always been up on a pedestal as the mage who’s ascended with true dramatic flair, crashing her way into the debutant ball and whisking the King of Aedirn off his feet despite the objections against her elven heritage. 

Triss had found Fringilla crying on the balcony later. Triss could understand. Fringilla had worked so hard yet Tissaia favoured Yennefer because Yennefer burned like the sun. You couldn’t help but look at her. She filled the room, demanding respect and attention. Fringilla was calm and dedicated. Polite and friendly. But somehow all her hard work meant nothing with Yennefer here. Yennefer was rewarded with a strong country, with valuable trade routes. Fringilla had a starving country with an uncaring Emperor. 

And Fringilla had turned it around, boy had she. 

Tissaia had given her the challenge of raising Nilfgaard from obscurity and she’d certainly succeeded - if only Tissaia were here to see it – but the price had been her relationship with her peers.

The pack was fractured. Triss had lost her place in Temeria as had Kiera. Yennefer had been hunted down in Aedirn – she was furious that she’d been kicked out rather than leaving of her own volition. 

Stregobor, surprisingly, hadn’t thought it through when he’d cursed the Aretuza mages. He’d been hiding for some time, the bastard. Isn’t it one of the first lesson’s learned as a child, that actions have consequences? If you turn someone into a werewolf, you’re going to get a werewolf. Now he had several angry werewolf mages desperate for his blood.

The pack maybe fractured but Triss and Yennefer had each other. She smiled fondly at the crease between Yennefer’s eyebrows as she peered over their work, running her finger under their ongoing research, before sighing ineffectually. 

“Well, I’m not staking any one of us through the heart. Similarly, I’m not amputating any limbs. Fuck we’ve done all of these,” she sets the book heavily down on the table, a frustrated frown pulling at her mouth.

Triss remembered the rituals under the half moon, having their clothes thrown at them and their full names incanted in order to urge them to change, the blood smeared on the yew saplings and burnt. The pages of books from Kovir to Skellige to Cintra saying that there was no cure, except death.

“Hush. We’ll find something.” They _had_ to.

“We need cures, not placeholders We need to find Stregobor, kill him and the curse ends,” Yennefer said, sharply, before holding her hands up in apology. They currently brewed a tea that allowed them to keep their heads during the full moon and they shut themselves far away from humans during that time.

It was isolating. 

Philippa was hunting for all leads on Stregobor, using her Redanian contacts. Kiera was searching too. Sheala was pouring over every book she could find on tracing chaotic energies. Triss and Yennefer had been tasked with looking for alternative cures. 

No luck yet.

Triss leant over and kissed her on the forehead, “We’ll find him.”

That wasn’t all that was bothering Yennefer, Triss could tell. 

Currently they were on their way to Kaedwen, to try and find the witcher and the girl. Ciri was a source, if Triss was not mistaken, and the one fated to stop the end of the world. They needed to stop her from getting into Emperor Emhyr’s greedy clutches. (Triss wanted to sooth her pained brow, Yennefer wanted to arm the girl and make sure she could never be hurt again).

“The Witcher won’t have the first clue about raising a child as powerful as she is. They’ll need our help. Destiny can go hang for all I care.”

“For a moment,” Yennefer said, tiredly, sadly, longingly, “I thought we could look after her.”

Triss’s reply was cut off when a muffled ‘yow’ came from beyond the tent. They were on their feet in seconds, battle ready. Then they realised it was just that damn werecat, the one who’d objected to Yennefer and Triss raising Ciri.

They have a silent conversation in which they debate the benefits of leaving him outside to freeze versus letting him into the tent.

The problem’s solved when he crashes through the tent flap, human shaped and as naked as the day he was born, lute case slung around his neck and his clothes tied to his ankles.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Yennefer rolls her eyes in exasperation. He yelps under her gaze and hops to his feet, covering himself with his hands.

“Ladies!” Then he turns rapidly, bending to collect his clothes and dressing hurriedly. 

“What are you doing here Jaskier?” Yennefer asks flatly.

“Well, I’m hoping to be the first to discover the incredibly secretive keep of the wolf witchers. Of course,” he says miserably, “You’ve probably already been there. Wolves sticking together and all that?” He licks his fingers and flattens his hair. 

Triss pulls a face.

“-either way I hope to get the stories of a lifetime from one very, uh, handsome witcher. I will be the first to spread their story across the Northern realms and beyond!”

He punctuated this with a jaunty twang of his lute. He pulled a face, it was out of tune.

“Either way, I call dibs ladies. I saw him first!”

“We don’t want the Witcher,” Yennefer lied, Triss could tell she was lying. Something about Geralt had intrigued Triss too, and it wasn’t just the child surprise with the immense power.

“You’re not going to abduct the girl, are you?” Jaskier frowned at them.

“What is your problem with us? She needs proper schooling, not endless drills in a witcher keep?” Triss asked him, curious.

“I know what happens when mages take girls. I heard what happened in Blaviken, you should remember it too, unless you’ve finally stopped shedding? I won’t let her be taken to be ripped apart as a science experiment,” he stands, puffing his chest.

“Why would we be interested in her?”

“Well…” He’s shaking, clearly terrified of the pair of them, but holding his ground. She skims his mind. It’s a memory of the day the Rat’s were chased out of Novigrad. Ciri had become separated from her group, cornered by guards. Jaskier makes a leap to her rescue, then –

_ -his ears ringing. He tries to lift a paw, but he can’t. He can see the soldiers, flat out in front of him. The wererat huddles in her half-transformed form against the wall. He can’t get up. Groggily he watches her struggle to her feet and flee-  _

“Oi get out of my head!” he admonishes.

“You saw her power too,” Triss confirms.

“Yes, and I’d rather she wasn’t dissected for it.”

“You do remember that we were _against_ dissection. Hence our current predicament?” Yennefer asks him patronisingly.

He flushes red. “Ah.”

Triss and Yennefer exchange an eyeroll. 

“You can sleep by the fire. We’ll be leaving first thing so don’t oversleep,” Yennefer instructs, gracious in the knowledge that the bard had had the girl’s best interests at heart. Bitterly she wonders if Geralt had _actually_ got around to refereeing their joke of a custody battle would Ciri be happy with them in Novigrad right now, learning to control her powers?

Triss brushes her hair and settles down upon her silk pillows, watching as Yennefer removes her make up. When she gets into bed Triss opens her arms up for Yennefer to hug into. She douses the lights with a wave of her hand. 

She thinks about what Jaskier said. There is an element of scientific curiosity, to be sure, where Ciri is concerned. There are whole prophecies about the girl and she clearly has a raw powerful connection to chaos. Maybe they’ll be able to balance things. Geralt can teach her to fight. Yennefer how to control her magic. And Triss can keep her alive in other ways. Making sure she doesn’t get too wrapped up in it all. She could probably do with some proper education too. One day she’ll be a Queen and she can’t neglect parts of herself in favour of others.

This feels right. The four of them will manage.

Jaskier purrs in his sleep, rolls over and almost singes his tail.

The four of them plus their hanger on, she amends.

* * *

The early trek back to Kaer Morhen had been mostly in silence. Ciri was plagued with nightmares that Geralt tried to sooth ineffectually. 

Guilt. 

Geralt could see that the last year had been tough on her, that she’d done things that would always haunt her, made decisions that she would always question. He felt guilty that he hadn’t found her sooner.

One night, after a sparse dinner of bread and cheese, they stared into the fire companionably. Each as haunted as the other.

“Sometimes there is no right decision. Sometimes the outcome is always going to be shit. Did you ever hear about Blaviken?”

Ciri looks up from where she was prodding a lump of charcoal, “Yes. You killed a bunch of people in the marketplace.”

He winced. “Mercenaries who were holding up the town. They were trying to kill a sorcerer.”

“That’s good then.”

He shook his head, “The sorcerer had killed many people. Tortured the gang leader. She wanted her pound of flesh. I often think I ought to have let her have it. But then I think it wouldn’t have stopped those people dying so why bother.” 

“But then he might have gone on to do something worse?!” She said angrily.

“See. I stop them killing townspeople, but the sorcerer goes free. I let them kill the townspeople and help them kill the sorcerer when he doesn’t come out, stopping further vivisections. Or I let them kill the townspeople, the sorcerer still goes free - walled up in his tower uncaring to the slaughter around him-”

“All the more reason for him to die!” she interjects.

Geralt nods miserably. “Sometimes people die and we can’t do anything about it.” They both stare miserably into the fire.

She shudders, a sob breaking through her wall of emotion.

“Hey. Come here,” he opens his arms for her, and she sobs onto his shoulder. He pats her on the back. He murmurs half remembered lullabies to her.

Eventually she cries herself into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Ciri waits in fear for the next full moon. She doesn’t want to be a Rat, a wererat, not anymore. She lies awake, worrying.

The first full moon is painful. Geralt takes her to an abandoned wood and tracks her to make sure she doesn’t go near the town. Its so very horrible, being alone for this. Though then when she wakes up she’s relieved. 

Reassured that Geralt came back for her. That he came back for her like he got her out of Brokilon forest all those years ago.

The next full moon is spent locked in an abandoned tower, Geralt with a stick in hand parrying her blows. The next morning, he corrects her form awkwardly, unused to training anyone. He says that Lambert is a better teacher and explains all the training structures they have at Kaer Morhen.

She has the third transformation in a cave system at the foot of the blue mountains, shivering and small – for the first time since _the_ first time in her full rat form, the crew had preferred the half-transformed form to achieve the most amount of terror.

Geralt feeds her pieces of cheese and keeps an eye on her as she snuggles up in his scarf.

On the fourth full moon they’re all safe in Kaer Morhen. Vesemir has set up an obstacle course in preparation – her training is coming along wonderfully, though most days she feels like a gigantic bruise. Its all for naught, as it turns out.

She lies there, under the stars, waiting for the dreadful feeling to wash over her. Geralt lies next her, a comforting presence she’s not felt since grandmother died. She waits. And waits. The tension and apprehension building inside her.

It doesn’t happen.

They lie there all night, the full moon bearing down on them.

At dawn she cries. 

Vesemir and Geralt pour over their bestiaries, working out what the case might be. She describes in detail the bonfire, the grey salve, the green taper, the blue flame, and the bite to the neck. They deduce that because she wasn’t getting a regular application of salve, the curse didn’t hold.

That night she has a thorough bath just to make sure it’s all gone. The feel of fur and sharp teeth haunt her, sometimes she wakes up screaming.

* * *

Travelling with a werecat is only preferable to travelling with a bard that sings constantly. Annoyingly a snowleopard is perfectly build for traversing this terrain. Even travelling with two mountain ponies doesn’t give Triss and Yennefer an advantage, especially as they aren’t overly enthused by the presence of a giant cat. It is quite entertaining, Yennefer considers, watching him try not to get his clothes and lute case soaked through with snow – lute case once again slung over his shoulder, causing him to list to one side, and his clothes and boots strapped to his middle now, after Triss had lent him a larger belt. Despite being weighed down he was springing from rock to rock with an agility and coordination of a kitten. He pauses at intervals to peer over the edge, thinking so loudly they can’t help but look at what he’s so curious about. She’d be quite jealous of him, transforming at will, if she wasn’t completely assured as to her own existence.

Together she and Triss would cure their lycanthropy, find Stregobor – kill him – and ensure that Princess Cirilla is raised to her full potential.

“Bard stop singing,” Yennefer chastises.

“ _I’m not!”_ He thinks loudly, “ _Besides, we’re nearly there! Don’t I deserve to be happy?”_

“Shush!” Triss says, holding up a cold hand. 

Yennefer furrows her brow enquiringly.

“I can hear someone coming?”

A small figure runs past them. 

It’s Cirilla.

Jaskier pounces, jumping around her in glee, kicking up the snow playfully at her. She starts, sees Yennefer and Triss, then smiles unsurely.

“Have you come to take me away, because I won’t go. I like it here.” It’s a statement, a calm, content, statement. It’s not especially argumentative. The routine, Yennefer suspects, has done her good.

“No. We hope to come to an arrangement with your guardian. You have chaos and great potential,” Yennefer says, dismounting, “I’d like to test you out, to see what you can do.”

“I don’t want to be a mage. I’m going to be a Witcher,” she scowls up at her.

Yennefer smiles pleasantly back, meeting her eye, “You may do what you wish. However, you need to control what you have, or else it’ll tear you apart. Good Afternoon Geralt.”

The witcher, unnoticed by the assembled party, had joined the periphery. He kept his face carefully blank. 

“We don’t have many strangers here. But-” his face is troubled, he’s concerned about Ciri too, “We’ll ready a room for you in the tower.”

Triss reassures him, “Your fears are unfounded and ungrounded. The days of mages searching out sources is long past. We don’t want to take her from her guardian. We won’t even tell the chapter about her; we know how special she is. The battle of Sodden and the Thannedd Coup changed many things,” she finishes sadly.

He nods at them, tentatively.

“And me? Where can I stay? I don’t take up much space. A blanket, pillow. Half a mattress. I’m willing to share body heat if necessary – see you don’t even have to expend firewood on me!” Jaskier, fresh from digging himself out of a snowdrift and half dressed, beamed up at Geralt as he pulled on his boots.

Geralt met his gaze, turned to Ciri, nodded, and went back to the keep. Jaskier practically bounded after him asking questions a mile a minute.

* * *

Philippa Eilhart caught up to Stregobor in Poviss. She made him suffer. Yennefer and Triss’s first quiet full moon in 30 years is spent in front of the roaring fire in Kaer Morhen’s great hall. A night off for the both of them. Yennefer set aside Ciri’s work, Triss let her tracing spells run themselves - Rience and Vilgefortz can wait one night to be tracked down. They open a bottle of Est Est – hidden carefully from Jaskier’s magpie like tendencies - and cuddle up on the sofa, exchanging gentle kisses. 

Jaskier scowls – as much as a cat can - from his place from the floor by the fire –he’d been looking for that wine - though a quick skim of his thoughts tells Yennefer that as soon as Ciri goes to bed he’s going to suggest a foursome. Ciri’s already dozing on his stomach, drooling onto his fur – she beat her personal best running the killer just this morning. Geralt smiles gently from where he’s flicking through the bestiary, updating the entry on Therianthropes, leant back in his high-backed armchair.

Triss stretches in Yennefer’s arms, content. The war is still raging across the continent, of course, but here? Here they can just _be._

They can live peacefully, without reputation or rumour.

Unhounded. 

Peaceful.

Free.

Just for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Werewolf/rat/cat lore taken from the Witcher wiki  
> \- Other werewolf lore from: Bone and Sickle (Podcast) #30 Loup-Garou, Werewolves in France. July 22nd 2019. Specifically inspired by the accounts of the Werewolf epidemic between 1520 and 1630 by the judge Bouget and the scholar Montague Summers, and by the 12th century poem “Bisclavret" by Marie de France.  
> \- I made the rest up!
> 
> Please comment and kudos, they keep me writing!


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